Sunday, August 18, 2002
05:58 p.m.

Okay, *fine,* I'll be all artsy. Just let it be known that I'm only actually satisfied with my work about two percent of the time.

And it's all Lisako's fault, for making me feel like a cranky old ascetic hermit. You dadblasted young'un!

Wednesday, August 14, 2002
08:51 a.m.

the "T" word

So yesterday afternoon I was browsing a bookcase over at Sarah's parents' house, and she mentions that there's a series of books by Laurel Hamilton whose heroine reminded her a great deal of myself. Naturally I was curious, and she offered to lend me her paperback copies. Then we get back to the Hamon homestead that evening, and I find out exactly what I've gotten myself into:

Anita Blake.

I suppose this is where I find out whether or not trends really will give me hives.

Friday, August 9, 2002
11:26 a.m.

this morning, at work, now

A very strange man calling himself Pharoah Keraton barged in to speak with the Rosicrucian curator; lucky for all of us she wasn't in, and he left the Admin. building.

Then I got a call for assistance from Steve Hack, which is not usual on a weekday. Even though I don't know the grounds all that well, somehow I went straight to where he was . . . it was that Pharoah guy. Steve told me to call the cops if he came back on the premises, and went back to his work. Pharoah, who I swear could easily pass for sane, told me he would talk to the curator and see to it that Steve was fired, and somehow I extricated myself back to this nice safe office in Admin.

Then Steve radioed me to call the cops. Pharoah guy had not left, indeed he had threatened Steve with his cane, and continued to do so, apparently, while I was making my little statement to the nice phone-answering person at 911.

This man was not disturbing to look at. He was clean, appropriately dressed, slightly on the casual side, but it's summer. He looked just like any other philosopher/musician/favorite uncle in the world, except that he claimed Pharoah was his title, and somehow it had to do with the vein pattern in his arm. But it was not his subtle madness that still disturbs me.

The vibes this man leaves after talking to or touching you are phenomenally unsettling. They're like the taste of burnt toast, or brushing against a cactus patch full of snakes. I still have a feeling like getting heat-rash beneath a cervical collar and a muffler, and this is almost half an hour after he's left. [shudders] Eeeyurgh.

Small wonder he goes on about spirits. I just wish he'd keep them away from me.